For Fear of Going Mad
by The Phantom of the Potter
Summary: *DETAILED SUMMARY INSIDE.* This is my re-write of "Love Never Dies"-esque plot. The first half of the story works well with LND's plot, mostly filling in backstory. But the second Christine comes into the picture, I take a huge turn from the ALW fluff.
1. Locked Doors

**EXPLINATION OF THE STORY:**I've said before, this is my own personal rewrite of Love Never Dies. I feel that it does more justice to the original story than the official musical does. When you read this, don't expect any drunken Raouls or half-thought-out-plots-to-win-Christine's-heart or topless Girys.

What I will try to do, however, is follow ALW's general plot as closely as I can without harming the characters. Because, at the end of the day, I am not absolutely opposed to the idea of a sequel. Do I think Love Never Dies was necessary? No. But my main gripe about LND was always that it destroys the original characters without any reason or any background. I'm going to try and remedy that.

**SUMMARY**: This is going to follow lots of different characters from the LND musical. As of right now, I'll be concentrating on Meg, Madame Giry, and Fleck as the three main characters. (This may change later, though.) The story is going to be about Erik, as always, but told in a style that better reflects the original musical. Erik will remain a seclusive figure; he'll retain the mystery that made him the Phantom. I do not want to give away too much of the plot, but I will say that the first half of the story could work as a sort of 'prequel' to the official LND musical. Everything will be compatable to LND up until the point where Christine comes into the picture. From then on, I'll swerve far away from ALW's plot (although you may see the occasional nod to the LND plot).

But now I feel like my author's note has gotten really, really long and wordy. If you guys are still ready to read the story, awesome! On with the show!

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**From the diary of Meg Giry:**

_Dear God. He's _here.

_Just in the other room! It's a presence, and aura. That _corpse_, that monster, within our walls, our home!_

_Mama has gone mad. We are housing a murderer. _

_I - I have to get the facts down on paper before my head explodes under their weight. I have this awful, nagging feels that this is my fault. Perhaps if I hadn't – But no, Meg. You must write down only the facts. Oh God! I fear _I'm_ going mad!_

_Tonight was the opening night of the Ghost's opera – _Don Juan Triumphant_. Mama and I knew there was to be a plan to capture the Ghost, but the managers made it clear that they did not want Mama's help. 'Not that I would offer any to those fools,' Mama told me. It was, however, difficult to miss the plethora of policemen running around the theater. But Mama had told me to keep my head down, so I did. _

_Mama was right to say so. For the second time in my memory, the Phantom chose to reveal himself to the crowd. Not that I noticed at first. Instead of the spectacular death's head costume he famously wore to the masque ball, the Ghost made his entrance in a far more subtle, more sinister manner. During Christine's final arias, he chose to take up – God! Do I dare write it? No, Meg. You must. _

_The Phantom took Piangi's role. The Opera Ghost took the stage as Don Juan himself._

_Did Christine know, then? Did she know it was him? The Ghost had us fooled until the end. But when I remember Christine's eyes, frightened, enraptured, I think she must have known who her Don Juan truly was. But I shudder to think: if Christine knew, what dark force kept her from running? _

_God. Christine. I do not even know if she's alive. _

_I can't let myself stop now. I must finish this. _

_My focus had strayed from the stage, but soon I heard screaming come from the stage. I ran toward the stage, fearing the worst, and – God! – _I_ found Piangi's corpse. His neck was broken, head lolling aside uselessly as he turned slowly in circles. His eyes were bulging, set in his clammy face, a thread of saliva hanging force his gaping mouth – _

_I screamed. Oh, God! When the gendarme cut Piangi down, a horrible _thud_! Crunching, dead weight! And he had been a _man_! I had spoken to him not an hour before, danced for him on stage! Dead, horrid weight!_

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_I must remember not to make a noise. _He _might hear my tears. But the door is locked, and this is not the Opera. _He_ can't reach me here. He can't. _

_But I must stay quiet. And I must finish this. _

_I ran away from that horrible place where the police were – Well. I ran onstage, right into the Vicomte de Chagny. I nearly knocked him over. Mama was with him, speaking quickly, her hands white on her walking cane that she uses when her arthritis flares. The Vicomte spared me no glance, simply set me right on my feet. His eyes were only for my Mama. _

'_Monsieur, I know where they are!' she said, turning her back to him and hurrying away. He darted after Mama, catching her by the sleeve. 'Can I trust you?' was his question. Dazed, I half expected Mama to hit the Vicomte for grabbing her so brashly. Instead, she patted him roughly on the hand that held her sleeve. _

'_You must,' was her husky reply. It suddenly struck me what they were talking about. I had glanced around and noticed that, among the chaos and screams and wails of Carlotta, Christine was missing! _He_ must have taken her, I thought! My friend! Taken by that creature!_

_I turned to Mama and the Vicomte and saw Mama simultaneously trying to show the Vicomte how to properly defend himself against the Ghost's lasso and pull him off of the stage and towards his love. A rage gripped me, like I had never known. I rushed up from behind the Vicomte and grabbed his other arm, ready to help Mama pull him down, beyond the third cellar, and rescue Christine. _

'_Like this, Monsieur!' I cried, raising my hand up to show him the defense. Mama spun around, her eyes flashing. 'No!' she snarled at me. 'You must stay here!' I recoiled, as if stung by some horrible insect with black satin wings. She - _

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_I – I thought I heard something, from the room where _he_ is. But I dare not unlock the door. God, what am I going to do tomorrow? I can't stay in this room forever_

_I feel the details spilling away from me now, so I'll try to push forward quickly. I was horrified, caught. I desperately wanted to help, but found myself useless with fear and rage. For the first time I can remember, I decided I would go against Mama's wishes. I started down towards the cellars, alone, initially, but I was soon joined by stagehands, chorus members, dancers, actors, gendarmes, costume makers, musicians, all manner of men and women, all sick with rage and ready to push the Phantom off of his throne of terror. The Ghost had ruled our minds for too long; we were starting a revolt, a rebellion, a revolution against him. And I – somehow – found a way to guide them through the labyrinth of tunnels beneath the cellar. Mama and the Vicomte were nowhere to be seen. When we reached the horrible, slimy gate before what could only be the Phantom's lair, I was able to quickly slip through. I was bold, bolder than I have ever been; I pushed aside papers, hand raised, eyes watchful as I searched the room for any sign of my friend. _

_I saw nothing. Soon the - mob, I suppose, would be the right word – the mob grew restless. One stagehand cried for a sweep of the sewers to find the Ghost, and the idea was met with roaring approval. They rushed away, down the passage, leaving only me standing at the Ghost's empty lair. _

_I never saw Mama standing in the shadow outside of the gate until she spoke. 'Did they find him?' she asked. I spun around, holding back a cry. My earlier boldness was fading quickly. I now felt nothing more than wet, dirty, and sick. I still feel like that, and I wonder if I will ever be able to truly cleanse myself. 'No,' I told her. _

_Mama slipped under the portcullis with a deftness I did not know she still possessed and – without a word to me - began searching the room. She muttered to herself as she ran her hands over every surface she could reach. _

'_Mama?' I asked timidly. She shushed me, her rough hands rasping across the prominent, throne-like chair in the far corner of the room. I waited a moment before repeating myself. Mama ignored me, crouching beside the throne. I saw her wince visibly as she grasped her hip. _

'_Mama!' I cried. 'You aren't well! What do you mean by it?' Mama groaned as she turned to me ruefully. 'Meg, my love,' she said. 'I am looking for something, something that he must have hidden here somewhere. I must find it, for both our sakes.' She turned back to the leg of the throne and frowned at it for a moment before running her hands over the dark ebony again. I don't know how long I stood there, watching her methodical search of that throne. Every ounce of brashness and courage that I had possessed seems to have melted away into the shadows of the darkness surrounding the candlelit lair. I could do nothing but stand. _

_Suddenly, there was a horrible click and a popping noise. I looked up to see Mama's hands on a panel on the back of the throne. She eased the wood away slowly, cautiously, only to drop it when she saw what lay inside. I cried out, nearly falling backwards on my feet. _

_There, curled inside the secret compartment in the back of the throne, was a corpse. But if was far more horrible than anything else I had seen that evening. The corpse was breathing, wearing the wet remnants of the Don Juan costume. When Mama had pulled away the panel hiding the corpse – for I can hardly use the word _man_ to describe this sight – its hands seems to twitch quickly, an almost imperceptible jerk, and its watery, mismatched yellow eyes flicked up toward Mama. But then the corpse did not move again, other than its chest rising and falling in quick, jagged motions. _

_The corpse wore a mask._

_The corpse was the Opera Ghost. _

_I wanted to scream; I wanted to curse, to run, to flee, to throw something at that horrible sight. But something kept me from making a sound. I couldn't move; I could barely breathe. I was held in my place by the horror and wretchedness of the sight, the corpse before me. _

_And then I became quite sure that Mama was mad. She reached into that dark compartment, hooked a hand on the Ghost's forearm, and pulled him out. _

_I don't know how we managed to sneak him out of the Opera, from right under the gendarmes' noses. When Mama pulled his body out, I saw that he had been curled up in a bed of francs. Mama had me take those as well. She hasn't spoken a word to me since we've left the Phantom's lair. _He_ hasn't moved again, or made any sound that I know of. He would be dead, if not for the fact that he still breathed. _

_And I am now locked in my room in Mama's flat. The sky is starting to lighten; I believe it is nearly dawn. _

_The corpse is sitting just outside of my door. The Phantom of the Opera, thief, kidnapper, murderer, criminal wanted by all of the Paris police force, is in my home. I have heard no word from Christine; I have not seen the Vicomte. They might both be dead. The man sitting outside of my room might have killed them. _

_Mama has gone quite mad. I fear that I may be, as well. _

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Okay, guys! Please, **please** review! I don't want to hound for reviews, but I would like to judge the reception of this story. If you would like to hear more, please click the little button and drop a comment! If you have some time, I love constructive criticism! Whatever you can do - You friendly neighboorhood starving writer would appreciate it!


	2. Trapped

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: **Firstly, I owe an incredible apology for taking so long to get another chapter up. With all hope, this won't happen again. Recently I had the opportunity to actually see LND on stage. I was absolutely apalled by what I saw, and it sparked a renewed interent in this story. But I will not rant about LND's horrors here. So - after a long, long wait - here's chapter two!

PS - On a more positive note, **thank you** to anyone who reviewed! They were all very flattering, and I really want to know what you guys think about the story as it progresses!

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The room was dark – musty, almost, although the ship had only left a few days ago. I wondered what power that creature possessed, that he could create a dungeon from a palace so quickly. My eyes fell on the shadow of the room's spectral inhabitant.

The sight made my skin crawl. The man was curled up, his legs pressed against his chest, arms folded across his knees, chin resting in his elbows. A child's position superimposed upon the body of a man. His eyes, watery and bloodshot as they were, seemed to drift aimlessly up towards me and locked onto my frame, tracking me, unmoving, like the eyes of a painting. Nothing else of his moved; he did not even appear to be breathing. In the past few days, I had become more accustomed to the concept of the living dead.

Tightening my jaw, I stepped forward. "I had this brought up to the room," I said loudly, my voice sharper than usual as I set the plate of fruit onto the nearest table. I ignored the other untouched plates that were left from previous days.

I stepped back quickly and turned to face the man again. He hadn't moved; I wasn't surprised. He had sat in that chair since the ship's departure, always in the same position, his empty eyes staring forward into the room, taking in everything and nothing.

But I still could not bring myself to turn my back on him. I felt behind me for the doorknob of the adjacent door, twisted it, and quickly stepped out of the gloom and into the brightness of the main suite.

I heard a soft cry from behind me as I snapped the door shut. I turned.

Meg quickly looked away from me, down to her hands. "Meg?" I asked softly. She looked up at me nervously, and I noted with a frown that her eyes were bloodshot and tired. She had not been sleeping well recently, and, from the looks of it, had spent another sleepless night last night.

Meg winced, almost as if she could hear my silent rebuke. She glanced around the room before looking down at her hands again. I followed her gaze, and saw that she was quivering in her chair.

"Meg. You're shaking."

Meg closed her hands into tiny fists. "It's nothing," she muttered, looking up towards me. But I noticed her gaze slide slowly down past my shoulder and land on the doorframe behind me. I frowned.

"You look pale," I said. "Unwell. You haven't been getting enough sun. Go outside; the sea air will be good for you."

Meg's frame seemed to collapse into herself as she looked down at her hands. "Yes, Mama," she murmured before standing up and darting out of the cabin. The door snapped shut. I stared at its rich chestnut frame.

I knew Meg was persevering for my sake, for the sake of her old Mama. She hadn't asked one question since the night of _Don Juan_. Just 'Yes, Mama's and nods. She waited for my explanation, in good faith that it would come.

But she was terrified. I could see the fear eating away at her when we went down to the dining room for dinner. She had become a frightened mare, easily spooked, jumpy, and ready to bolt at the slightest movement. She seemed to spend most of the time in the cabin, sitting in a chair in the far corner, casting terrified glances toward the adjacent cabin, unwilling to look away. I had begun to send her out of the cabin during the day, just to get her away from the door for which she seemed to have a terrible, growing fascination.

Almost unwillingly, I lowered myself into the very chair Meg had just occupied, wondering if I was developing the same obsession. I was uneasy about leaving the Ghost here alone, worried that I would return to find him vanished, unleashed upon a freighter full of unsuspecting passengers. And then, what? I certainly could not go to the ship's attendants and warn them of a murderer loose on their ship. A murderer _I_ had brought aboard, no less. The Ghost was a hunted fugitive in Paris, and I had no doubt that the Opera's managers had given my name – as well as Meg's – to the gendarmes in charge of the case. I would die before seeing my Meg jailed.

I started to realize that I had been tearing pieces of fabric off of the armchair I was seated in. I released the chair as if it has stung me, and folded my hands in my lap. God forbid Meg ever feel an inkling of the uncertainty tearing through my veins now. _Why_ had I designed to rescue the murderer? I owed him no significant debt; I could just have easily discovered his hiding place and called back the mob to deliver the Ghost to a long awaited justice. But I did not.

I tore myself away from the armchair suddenly. I would _not_ fall slave to the creature inside the adjacent room. I would _not_ allow Meg to shrivel into a skittish mouse because of the Ghost's influence. Meg and I were speeding to America, to a new life that would be – with all hope – better than the one we had left.

I stood up quickly, sending a twinge of pain down my spine with the speed. Wincing, I reached for my cane and tentatively straightened my back.

"Getting too old for this," I muttered as I walked toward the cabin's door, ready to go out and meet Meg on the top deck. My hand hovered over the doorknob for a moment. I turned – unwillingly – to look at the door to the adjacent room.

I walked across the cabin slowly, creeping toward the unknown terror behind the door. Gingerly, my hand rested on the smooth wood grain. It was as if some sort of cold stillness seeped through the door; my fingers quivered at its touch. Again, I hesitated.

I shook myself, and with another brash movement I locked the door. There. The creature inside was as trapped as I could hope to make him. Locks and keys had never done much to keep the Ghost away before, but it was as best as I could manage. And the key I slipped into my pocket rested there with a comforting weight.

I walked outside the cabin quickly, sharply, and began climbing the metal steps up toward the upper deck. The salt wind whipped across my face, tearing some of my hair out of its tightly wound bun. At last I reached the highest deck, uppermost on the ship save for the tall smokestacks that towered above us.

I spotted Meg at the far end of the deck, her hair and skirt whipping around her as she stared out into the sea. Once again I noticed how very lean and gaunt she had become. I walked up to the railing of the ship to join her. Meg looked at me, and I was shocked to see a depth in her eyes that I had only seen once before in my life, in the dark room below.

Meg gave me a feeble smile, and for a moment she looked so fragile that the strong wind could have surely blown her away. Bitter anger welled up inside of me as I patted her arm and looked out into the sea myself.

The Ghost did well to starve himself. Should he continue, it was unlikely he would survive the crossing to America. I would be only too glad to leave his corpse behind as we disembarked, leave his rotting flesh for some unlucky cleaner to come across. At least then we would be free of his dark magic, free to continue our lives. Meg would grow fat and content in our new flat, supported by the substantial remnants of the Ghost's salary that had not been spent on procuring a first class suite on the ship. And I, who had so foolishly spared his life in France, would not feel an ounce of guilt for it. And so the Ghost's reign would finally end.

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Alrighty - here's where I want to put up a bit of a disclaimer. I am painfully aware that the first chapters have been angst-ridden and dark. **This will change. **I don't _like _angsty darkness, and so the second I can jerk the characters out of their 'woe-is-me'-ness, **I will.** Just in case a few of you were wondering if this was what the whole flippin' thing is going to read like. **Nope. **It won't.

As always, **review!** I read all of them many times, and they really motivate me to write another chapter! Thanks!


	3. Nothing But Death and Taxes

**AUTHOR'S NOTE:** Again, _thank you_ to everyone who has reviewed! And, so, Chapter 3!

I want to make a quick note: This chapter (in case you couldn't tell) skips ahead quite a bit in the narrative. Remember, according to LND's plot, we have to span **_TEN LONG YEARS_** of our character's lives before we can come to Christine arrival. So I'm going to be jumping around months, maybe years ahead in the next few chapters. (This is only to spare you of a "Mme. Giry goes to the market. Little Meg stays home. Erik sits and mopes" chapter. Because those are boring.)

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I glanced up at the old, spotted mirror hanging the wardrobe. I raised my eyebrows quickly: apparently, for the last hour or so I had been systematically pulling stands of hair out of my normally taut bun. My weathered face was now surrounded by a small halo of grey and black stands. Shaking myself, I lay my pen aside and walked over to the wardrobe to remedy this.

Our flat was small, but serviceable. Two rooms: one main room, one bedroom. For all we used it, the main room was our entire flat. Two beds were crammed into its corners, Meg's being the more luxurious of the two. A small armchair and a lamp stood in the final corner of the room. A single, circular wooden table stood near what served as our cooking area. The table, as of now, was covered with papers - advertisements - remnants of my recent attempts to secure employment. On top of the papers was a small book where I recorded our finances, and the source of my frazzled appearance.

I smoothed away the last piece of hair before moving back to inspect the small book. Almost immediately I had to stop myself from tugging at my hair again. America had grown expensive.

I sank into my chair, looking at the carefully recorded numbers in front of me. Our substantial starting funds had dwindled in the past year. By my calculations, rent would become scarce in a few months, should we continue to live the way we had been. I picked up my pen and began rearranging funds carefully, trying to stretch what was left of the Ghost's salary as far as possible.

After nearly half an hour more of this, I threw down my pen irritably and halfheartedly glanced through the advertisements and other papers on the table. There were very few work offers I would be able to take. I was far too old for factory work; my arthritis would never allow it. And my English was not yet good enough that I could take up a less strenuous line of work, such as sewing or tutoring. (Not that Americans wanted an old, hawk-like Frenchwoman educating their children, anyway.)

My gaze drifted up toward the splintered door leading to the flat's bedroom. The door was always closed and – in order to sooth all of our nerves – kept under lock and key. In the past year, Meg and I had come to generally ignore the door's existence, as well as the shadowy unknown residing behind it. And it was seemingly just as willing to be ignored. The Ghost's health had neither deteriorated nor improved since the crossing from France.

I felt it's presence akin to the toad a child brings home after an excursion to the beach: no matter the parents' disgust, the toad is kept and forgotten about in a small box. Eventually a foul odor seeps out of the box, and the parents are obliged to dispose of the toad's corpse. Such wild things are not meant for boxes, despite the child's charming attempts to feed it vegetables and dinner scraps. The toad had been condemned from the moment the child 'saved' it from the wild.

_This_ toad - on the other hand - seemed to stay in its original unearthly, suspended state, despite my neglect. The Ghost seemed no closer to death than before, but neither could I truly consider it alive.

This was not to say I was trying to kill the Ghost. On the contrary, I provided the Ghost with the necessities of life: food, water, shelter. It was up to it to decide to die. I knew that it would happen sometime, as all things must eventually die. But I hoped for sooner, rather than later. Meg was still uneasy with its presence. Her demeanor had improved considerably since the crossing from France, but she still worried me.

Occasionally I would find her curled up in the armchair, or her bed, staring fearfully at the bedroom door, much as she had done in the ship's stateroom. During these moments, a fearsome depth came into her eyes, a haunted, beaten look that had no place on my daughter's face. The only thing I could then do was chase her out of the flat, command her to take a walk, do anything that would get her away from that damned door. And after she was gone I would look toward the door myself and send a prayer to God that the Ghost would die, and leave us in peace.

And still, I had no right to throw him out onto the streets. Some unspoken ethic prevented me from doing so – even now – as our financials were quickly descending into the red. The fact remained that Meg and I were living off of _its_ money. It seemed that I had drawn myself into an unwilling contract with the Ghost when I pulled him out of the Opera. We were now at an impasse: he, unwilling to die; me, unable to turn him out.

There had been nights when I cursed myself for taking him in. It would have been much easier to take his money and leave him to his deserved fate. I wouldn't have regretted it. But in the frenzy of that night, any small debt I owed him seemed to have been magnified by panic. It was ironic that – in the end – it was the Ghost's selfishness that saved his life. Everything he had done for me at the Opera was to make me convenient to him: my large flat within walking distance of the Opera, my salary and the occasional large tip, Meg's position in the corps de ballet, among other things. My work at the Opera was always tempered by the uneasy alliance I had with the Ghost. And when I found him shriveled up in that horrid throne of his, I attempted to repay what little debt I still owed him. I saved his life, with the understanding that the arrangement would only be temporary.

The sound of the flat's front door opening jerked me from my thoughts. I glanced up to see Meg shutting the door closed behind her and locking it. I sprang from my seat and began stowing all of the papers on the table into a small wooden box at my feet.

"Mama?" said Meg curiously. "What are you doing? What is this?"

"Nothing for you to worry about, Meg, dear," I said quickly, snapping the little notebook shut. "Just something I occupy myself with when you're – "

"Mama?"

I looked up. Meg was holding one of the job advertisements in her hand. I quickly snatched it from her and placed it in the wooden box with the others. I closed the box and went to tuck it away under my bed. When I turned around, Meg was still looking at me.

"Mama?"

"Everything is fine, Meg," I said, smiling at her. She frowned.

"I will get a job," she said. "I'll work, if we need the money. The factories – "

"_No_," I said harshly. Meg stared. "No, Meg," I walked over to pat her on the head. "I will not have you working. American jobs are dirty, dangerous. You are an artist. You must not roughen those gentle hands of yours." I took her hands in mine and patted her cheek. "You leave that work to your Mama, should we need it."

Meg looked as if she were about to protest, but I silenced her by settling myself into the old armchair. "Enough, Meg. The matter is settled. But now you must please your Mama by telling her of your day. Did you enjoy your walk?"

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The moon was casting long blue shadows across Mama's bedspread. I shivered as a small draft played across the back of my neck, and I wrapped my own quilt around me tighter.

I stared down at the small book open in my lap. Mama's wooden box lay open at the foot of my bed, its papers spread across my sheets. But the book was the only thing of interest to me. I squinted in the room's faint light. The moon was not bright enough to reveal the exact numbers, but I could plainly see all of Mama's scratch-outs and scribbles through entire columns of calculations.

I swallowed and shut the book softly. It was obvious that we needed income. Mama could hide it as much as she liked, but we were running out of money. I began putting the papers back into the box carefully, so as not to rustle them around too much. I would have to confront Mama about this in the morning, make her see reason. She was too old for most of the available work. I glanced over to her sleeping form on the other side of the room. There was no shame in my supporting her. We were not in Paris. Whatever dreams she had of my returning to dance were lost. I had not practiced for a year. At this point, what skill I still retained would pale in comparison to any professional.

I shut the wooden box softly and rose to slide the box carefully under Mama's bed. I walked cautiously, one foot in front of the other, easing my weight into each footstep. Mama still had ears like a hawk, and would wake at the tiniest bump in the night.

Suddenly, the hairs rose on the back of my neck. I heard – although I supposed it was more _feeling_ than hearing – a soft breath drift past my ear. My arms erupted into goose bumps as I turned swiftly to confront the wind. A rat, I thought, though the sound was far less harsh than the scurry of small feet across the flat's floor.

Nothing. There was nothing there.

I wondered if I had imagined the sound entirely. It had come from a completely bare patch of the flat. No furniture for a rodent to hide under, no open window for a breeze to squeeze through. Nothing but the wall, the floor, and the splintering wooden door.

All of my blood seemed to drain into my middle. I felt a whimper rise in my chest, but my throat had clamped down and it died there. _Dear God_. Not after so much time.

And as I stared, fixated in terror, the breath floated past my ear again. It was quiet enough that I began to wonder if it was intentional at all. Another breath, then another. Quiet, so quiet that I had to strain to pick up on them. One after the other, each breath with a different feel, a different chill associated with it.

It struck me. _Singing_.

But it wasn't as simple. Moaning, perhaps. Weeping, even. But I began to be able to pick out notes, soft melodies in the feel of each breath. My fear lessened; suddenly I felt that I was privy to something forbidden, that I shouldn't be hearing the soft, almost nonexistent sounds seeping from the adjacent room.

I worked to steady my own breaths. I looked down into my hands, the wooden box trembling in my grasp. Looking back up at the door, I slowly lowered myself to kneel on the floor. I carefully open the box and pulled out an advertisement and Mama's pen. I set the paper on the floor, and quickly drew out a set of staffs on the paper.

Squinting in the moonlight, I listened carefully to each breath before guessing as to its corresponding note and length. And so I made a rough estimation of the sounds in the next room. Hours, maybe minutes, passed before the breaths finally died away. I looked up at the window to see the grey dawn light beginning to filter in.

I stood up carefully, wincing as my back complained from the night spent hunched on the floor. But for all my back moaned, my extremities buzzed with unspoken triumph as I surveyed the large pile of papers before me. In this, at least, I had outsmarted the Ghost. Overnight, the breaths had formed into a concrete melody, of which I felt certain I had managed to copy down many of its nuances. Two minutes in front of a piano – if I could find one – would have me certain of this.

And once I was certain, to the printer's I would go. Mama and I would be in business.

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**AN:** H'okay. I'm not _too_ pleased with the way this chapter turned out. But let me know what you think. Either I will completely rework this whole chapter, or I will leave it alone and try to forget it. It all depends on your feedback.

So, **review, review, review!**


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